


The Death of Rats

by MiraMira



Category: Discworld - Pratchett, Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Crossover, Gen, Minor Character Death, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-24
Updated: 2009-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/pseuds/MiraMira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Pettigrew discovers too late that dying is the easy part.  Now he has to figure out what comes after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Death of Rats

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Hogwarts Elite contest.

Peter returned to consciousness slowly. There'd been a vague feeling of mist, which he supposed was only to be expected after the lack of oxygen, and of cold, but that had faded for the most part. Now, there was only darkness, and the sensation of a dank, dirty stone floor beneath him.

The cellar. Of course. No doubt he'd been thrown in when the Malfoys arrived to investigate and discovered the place empty…or nearly so. The remaining captives – he did not want to think of them as James's son or the young master who'd cried over his pet's supposed death when he thought no one was looking – must have been subdued, or he'd never have been shown such mercy. Their attempt to help him and the precious seconds it had cost them might even have been their undoing. He tried not to think about that, either.

All things considered, though, he seemed to have gotten off remarkably easy. Why, it didn't even feel like he'd been chained. He looked down at his hands to confirm this, and was met with a shock.

What he saw were _his_ hands, both whole and identical, smooth and clean to a degree he hadn't known since the night James and Lily died and baths had become a rare luxury. Not really needing the confirmation but seeking it all the same, he reached up to feel his neck. There was no scarring, no aching bruises. "Oh," he said, and was not surprised when his voice failed to echo through the cellar. He had, after all, no breath to make the sound carry.

In a way, it was almost a let down. The strangling had been most unpleasant, but the act of dying itself had been…simple. Painless, even, just as his…the Dark Lord had always told his victims in mocking consolation. If only he'd known.

Or had he, once? Yes, that was right: the Dark…Lord Voldemort had persuaded him that he would be doing James and Harry a kindness by arranging a quick death for them rather than the torture which would ensue if he had to kill Peter and track them down himself. Funny, how somewhere in the midst of the lies and the cowering and the running, survival had supplanted all other motivations.

Gradually, he became aware of something else in the darkness with him. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he determined that it was a rat skeleton. Hardly unusual, given his surroundings, except for two things. The first was the tiny, hooded black robe someone had made for it. The second was that as it became aware of Peter's attention, a burning blue light flared to life in its eye sockets, and it began to move. Drawing back the folds of its robe, it brought forth a tiny scythe with an edge so sharp it faded into the same blueness of its eyes.

Seeing Peter gape, the rodent Grim Reaper grinned a little (not that it had much choice in the matter). SQUEAK, it said, in capital letters that Peter could actually hear.

They stared at each other for an indeterminate but prolonged period of time, until Peter cleared his throat uncomfortably. "So…what now?"

The tiny skeleton shrugged, in as much as a rat could shrug. SQUEAK. SQUEAK SQUEAK **EEK** SQUEAK.

There was meaning behind the sounds, of that much Peter was certain, but he could not decipher it. "I'm sorry. I don't…"

The rat gave a very human-sounding sigh. With its free paw, it gestured at Peter, then lowered the paw toward the ground as it brought it back toward itself.

"Oh. Right." Peter hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he'd need to do anything different to initiate the transformation, before realizing that he'd no sooner thought about changing than the floor had suddenly grown larger and a great deal closer. This unnerved him less than the sense of relief which accompanied the shift into his Animagus form. When he'd been a fugitive from Sirius, the remnants of the Death Eaters, and his own death certificate, Wormtail had been a necessity. When he'd been Voldemort's servant, the rat shape had been a refuge. Other than his companion, whose appearance he was beginning to understand with a slight touch of nausea, what did he have to hide from here?

Wormtail. Peter. When had he started drawing distinctions between the two? When had he stopped?

_LIKE I SAID,_ the skeletal rat repeated, now that its audience was capable of understanding, _I'M JUST HERE TO HELP YOU GO ON. ON TO WHAT DEPENDS ON YOU._

Memories of Sunday morning sermons from the fire and brimstone pastor at the church he had attended with his mother until they both discovered the particular relevance of the injunction not to suffer a witch to live to their own lives set him trembling. _"Am I going to Hell?"_

_POSSIBLY._

_"Will James and Sirius be there?"_

_ALSO POSSIBLE._

Peter let out a half-nervous, half-irritated chitter. _"You're a lot of help."_

_SOR-RY. IT'S NOT LIKE I USUALLY GET ANYONE WHO REQUIRES MUCH OF AN EXPLANATION._

He twitched his whiskers, considering. _"What if I just decide to stay here?"_

_YOU CAN'T. NOT FOREVER._

_"Damn."_ Peter slumped.

_YOU'RE A WIZARD,_ the rat pointed out. _YOU HAVE OPTIONS. YOU COULD GO BACK._

_"As a ghost, you mean?"_ But where would he go? Spend his afterlife the same way he'd spent most of his life, confined to some tiny, isolated room? Find a prime vantage point from which to observe the loathsome victory he'd done far too much to ensure, or endure the scorn of countless generations if Harry should somehow win? And if he stayed in rat form, he'd be looking forward to a whole eternity of momentary panic whenever a cat or a caretaker with a broom took a swipe at him before realizing they'd just pass through him, of watching and listening to the joys and dramas surrounding him without being able to participate. He'd hated that part of being a pet. No, that didn't appeal, either.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized there was no real choice – and the less he minded. For all his dread of it, death hadn't been so terrible. Maybe this would be the same.

Slowly, with more effort than the initial transformation, but less than he'd felt since his adolescence, he shifted his form back to human and stood. "I'm ready."

The rat nodded, then reared up on its hind legs to look into the widening circle of light behind it. Peter watched as a white horse galloped out of it to meet them. Its tall, thin rider also went hooded, and carried a much larger version of the rat's weapon. As it brought the horse to a gentle stop, Peter focused on the figure's burning blue eyes. They reminded him of the rat's, but also, somehow, of Dumbledore's. He didn't bother to ask for an introduction.

COME, said Death, holding out his hand.

Peter took it. With surprising strength, the skeleton lifted him onto the back of the horse, which nickered a bit as he adjusted his weight. Behind him, he caught a brief glimpse the Death of Rats scrambling up the horse's tail. Then he heard a whinny and the clatter of hooves on stone, and the three of them rode forward into the light.


End file.
